Happy Birthday to Me!

Kinda.

I have multiple birthdays, both literally and figuratively. I have two birthdays, but spiritually and consciously I think we have all experienced multiple moments of radical paradigms shifts, whether subtle or subtle like a sludge hammer, that re-birth our self.

If you want to be a smug son-of-a-bitch about it, I only do have the one actual day of birth, but, even that gets kinda tricky to explain. I was born on November 8th, 1982 in Isfahani Hospital in Shiraz, Iran.

My Iranian father met my American mother in 1972 while attending the University of Kansas City. After they were married in 1978, they moved back to my father’s homeland and started their own family. My older sister came along right at the height of the Iranian revolution in 1979. I didn’t want any part in it (the consummate diplomat) and didn’t come along for another 3 years. Yadda, yadda, alli babba…. out comes a bouncing baby girl with a full head of hair.

Remember, remember the 8th of November.

Because you’ll ask in a minute – I do not know the when, I’m not 100% clear on the how and only slightly in agreement with the why, but my father altered the date on my birth certificate. On every single piece of legal, binding and/or official documentation, my birthday DOES NOT READ November 8th.

When? Not sure. A day after I arrived? Two days after? A couple of weeks or months down the line because he thought I was too big for my age and didn’t want others thinking I was part giant? I don’t know. I do know that it happened before April 1983 when my mom, sister and I left Iran for America to be reunited with my father in two years time.

I have it on good authority that my mother’s exit of Iran occurred with much less drama than the film Not Without My Daughter. Too Bad. A damn shame. My mother’s only chance for the Oscar that I spent my entire junior high yearning she had hidden in her closet and the one I spent hours rummaging through her things looking for.

How? He paid somebody. Don’t let the sand, camels and goats fool you, Iranians are just as crooked and opportunistic as fat, pasty Americans.

And that leaves the why? Why change the birthday of your 0 – 6 month-old daughter?

To meet the age requirements of kindergarten, that's why. He knew that I was going to be one smart cookie. He knew that I had to be in school, the earlier the better. He knew I had shit to learn and a whole world to conquer. He knew I’d miss the Iranian kindergarten age limit by a month, so he made me almost two whole months older on paper.

Too bad he didn’t tell me until I turned 16 and was on my way to get my driver’s license, birth certificate in hand. Up until November 8th, 1998 I had a normal, completely acceptable birthday reality in my mind, one that revolved around one lone date.

I loved my birthday. The N’s in Natasha and November were a match; there was a nice sense of order to it. My birthday made me a Scorpio, a sign which I had began to identify with well before I began to steal copies of my sister’s YM magazines, in part to read to monthly relationship horoscopes. November 8th was after the freaks put away their masks and gore of Halloween but before they started their onslaught of Thanksgiving (remember when there were slight pauses in between holidays?). November 8th was all mine. My special day. A day of a fancy lunch at The Olive Garden with my mom and an extended amount of time and budget in the Lisa Frank aisle at Wal-Mart.

I lived for my birthday. November 9th wasn’t the day after my birthday, it was 364 (365, depending) days from my next birthday.

So, now understanding what a huge connection I felt with my birthday (no less, I am assuming than what most of you have with your own), please… please! understand my complete topsy-turvy-who’s-it-what’s-it-what-the-fuck-it moment when I saw, on my way to the DMV, that my birth certificate had recorded my date of birth as September 16th.

So, happy birthday to me.

Cough. cough.

You know that pleghmy, dry, hoarse, crackly, whisky tango hack you have to clear from your throat after muttering "hel-" first thing after waking up some morning before finishing "-lo?" This cough is usually preceding a night of drinking or smoking or drinking AND smoking? Or being 80 years old? You know... THAT coughing sound? My blog just made that sound.

::clears throat::

Hey youuuuu guuuuuys!!!!!!!! How's it been? Since 97% of you actually know me, I don't have to do a lot of explaining of where I've been and what the heck has been up. Suffice it to say... shit has gone DOWN and I have not been keeping record of it. People got married! (not me) People are having babies! (not me) People are moving! (this one's me!!!) And I'm tired of saying "I miss blogging." Because the only thing more lame than keeping a blog about one's mos-guided adventures of young single lady life... is to MISS blogging about it. Sad.

So, to catch you up to speed - Liz is a mom to be! Brooke and Rob got married (yours truly presiding over the ceremony in the back booth of Gilhoulys) and I'm moving to an adorable apartment a mere 4 blocks away.

Ok, I know, I know that doesn't actually catch you up with all that's been going on - but that's all you need to know for the foreseeable future. But right now I am going to go finish my cocktail on my porch and watch the huge thunderstorm roll in and enjoy my last Friday night on my porch.

Oh, and my hair is super short* now. *short for me

MHIBTY Book Club

I love books. I love to read. I love to see the movie. I love to tell people that the book was better than the movie. Since this blog is about me, my life and what I've been up to, I'm going to review some of my most recent reads. I am in no way qualified to review these books, besides having actually read them, but, a lack of qualifications rarely stops me.

Music for Torching
A. M. Homes
She is one of my favorite authors. She is an artist. A sick, twisted, honest, brilliant and non-apologetic word artist. In this novel, she tells the story of a couple stuck. And while there were no obvious parallels between her protagonist (which I thought, more than once, were also the antagonist) and myself, I couldn't help but feel like she knew my darkest fears and my deepest hidden secrets. Paul and Elaine live in a re-active state. When there is nothing to react to, one evening, when there are no dinner plans and all their friends are busy, they set their house on fire. And that's the first chapter. They both struggle with being honest with one another and themselves - rarely ever succeeding unless they're high/stoned. They pop pills like they're candy. They both let outside people (near strangers) fuck them. Literally and figuratively. Through an intricately weaved series of events, they eventually realize that they've lost all control in their life and that they need to take the reigns again to bring peace and normalcy back into their family, but this happens with about 10 pages left. And a LOT happens in those last 10 pages. Another book of hers I highly recommend is "The End of Alice."

The Lovely Bones
Alice Sebold
A 14 year-old girl is murdered and then tells the story from her point of view from "her" heaven. Whitney recommended this book because the author has imagined heaven to be uniquely different for each person in it, where sometimes certain parts of heavens overlap and at others don't. That aspect of it is what really pulled the entire novel together for me, because other than that it was just a tragic, terrible story about a family that is ripped apart by an asshole kid-rapist and murderer. Well written and beautiful, but tragic and sad none the less.

The Marketplace
Laura Antoniou
If you hate sex, do not read this book. This book was the closest thing to a boyfriend I had for about 2 weeks (I'm a slow reader). It was always there for me and made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside after a long, hard (hehe) day. The Marketplace is, indeed, a marketplace for S&M types to buy slaves. Yes, it's S&M smut-literature. Yes, it wasn't the most intellectual book I've ever read, but dammit - it was HOT. The story follows 4 "applicants" that want to be trained to be high caliber slaves - good enough to be sold on the Marketplace. I believe there are an additional 4 more novels that make up this series. So, if anyone wants to buy me book two (and a pack of AA batteries), feel free.

I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell
Tucker Max
For entertainment value only, this book was awesome. His drunken stories of debauchery, near death experiences and crapping/vomiting all over himself, his friends or his bed-mate made me laugh. The book had a nice mix of stories, though I liked his "pre-fame" adventures more compared to the ones after he became infamous around college towns. My brother bought this book in the hopes of reading it before he and his friends went to Lawrence to see the movie. Needless to say, he only got a couple chapters in, I read the whole thing.

Dora's Halloween Adventure
Sarah Wilson & Steve Savitsky
While, indeed, an adventure, the plot line was predictable and stale. "Oh No??? Boot's Candy has been stolen? Map, where is Boot's Candy?" Everyone knew (except the 18 month old triplets I was reading the book to) that Swipper took the candy. Big effing surprise. Next time I'd like to see Diego stuffing the sweet stuff down his throat... at least then it could segue into "Diego get Diabetes" and serve as a multi-purpose education tool for kids.

Read them all and I'll pull a "BookIT" and buy you a personal pan pizza from Pizza Hut.

Special K

I dated a boy once.

It was fun. For a decent while I was more than satisfied with what our relationship was. And for as much as we all have fun joking about how much I strike a resemblance to Side Show Bob, credit goes to this guy for SSB's lone true appearance to date. Liz was the only witness. One winter morning, after spending the weekend together, my hair was C.R.A.Z.Y. frizzy (you know - from the relations) and she swears that THAT is the only time I've had hair wild enough to look anything like the cartoon character.

But, back to the boy. I'll call him "Special K". For 3 reasons:

1. His name begins with, appropriately, a K.
2. He's special.
3. Just like the cereal, while very tasty and not necessarily bad, you can't live off it it- regardless of what Kellogg's and their "2 week" challenge claim. It's starvation.

This past weekend, my baby brother David came into town for Thanksgiving. He and Daniel, along with an assortment of their cronies, were going to hit Westport. I agreed to meet up with them late in the evening. We ended up at Kelly's (not my idea - just for the record!). There was a band, doing all covers - I think. I know I heard a Weezer and a Tool Song.

I'm jamming out with David when all of a sudden someone felt closer to me than a normal stranger would be. Next thing, he's got me by the nape of my neck***, pulling me towards him and trying to yell something in my ear. I start to freak out because I'm thinking that I'm gonna have to karate chop some random's ass.

But then I see that it's Special K. What. The. Eff?

Then he repeats himself. I still can't make out what he's trying to yell at me, so I do the universal head-shake-while-pointing-to-ears-and-shrug gesture. He then screams in to my ear "What are the odds that that guy" points to David, who is oblivious to this whole exchange thus far "is gonna get lucky with Natasha tonight?" Special K slyly smiles to himself, making a look I could only interpret as "Oh yeah - I totally just called you out and made you feel super awkward. Score!"

I ask "That guy?" and point to the still oblivious David. "Zero." And to emphasize my point, I make a goose egg with my left hand.

Confused and a little startled, Special K pauses. He then asks me "What are my odds?"

"Zero." And to emphasize my point, I make a goose egg with my left hand. "That guy" pointing to David who has finally realized I'm talking to someone else and is looking at us "is my brother."

Harder than bombs over Baghdad, his face exploded in a disgusting realization of what that made his first question (effing gross) and therefore he himself was victim to the super awkwardness. 2 beats later "So wait - I don't even have better odds than your brother?"

No, Special K, you don't.

***At first I thought some random creep was wanting to toussel my tresses, which, that wouldn't have been the first time that happened that night. SERIOUSLY people. Random people touch my hair. MHISOOOOMBTY.

Fuck Luck

While barely finding the motivation to tread water in the unemployed ocean, I had a stroke of brilliance. I decided to have a party on Friday the 13th. It was going to celebrate, mainly, my birthday, but also it was a party for the fact that all I had going for me was the fact that I wasn't dead. And that, folks, is all you need. Fuck Luck.

Invites were sent out, food, booze and music (thank you Steve!!!) were planned. I even knew what I was going to wear 2 weeks before hand. This was huge. I was excited for the entire week leading up to the big night. The night before, I laid out my outfit with an excitement that rivaled even the most giddy moments of my youth.

OoooMG.

I had the Best. Time. Ever.

It probably didn't hurt the cause that I started drinking when I got home from work. People weren't going to start trickling in for AT LEAST another 2 hours. So, I swept & Swiffered and finished making my desserts while enjoying an organic Belgium Wheat Stef & Russell brought me from Colorado. Yum. They just brought me back 1 bottle, but, thank goodness it was a liter sized bottle.

Soon after my first drink was polished off (and yes, I'm counting a liter of beer as "a drink"), Whitney came through the front door with bags of food, beer and champagne. She popped the first bottle, the corked ricocheted off of a few things and it ended up under my tea kettle on the stove. She had Russell open the next one. Appropriately enough, she and I drank champagne from my pair of "Bar Natasha" champagne glasses.

After the first champagne bottle popping, I cannot verify the accuracy of the whats and the whens of all that went down. But here is what I remember...

*Steve made me the 4 most righteous (his word, but I must agree) mixed cds. He named them "Do the Na-Cha-Cha," "Slash Show Bob," "Durka Durka" and "Sherpa Sherpa Allah." I'm listening to Durka Durka right now "She's got the look...na na na na naaaaaaa na na na na na naaaaaaaaa YEAH - she's got the look!"

*Lee brought me a brownie cake with cream cheese icing with my name on it. Awesome. It was almost too pretty to eat. Almost.

*Sabrina brought a salad. Like an actual salad. Or at least one of those HUGE tubs of mixed greens. Trust me - this was HILARIOUS.

*Some random neighbor named Curtis invited himself onto my front porch.

*Lindsey showed up drunker than a me and gave me a FABULOUS vintage dress that I put on right then and there (on the front porch) and proceeded to model it. I spent almost the whole night thinking it was black and gold, but around 1AM Sabrina told me it was Brown and Ivory.
"What the EFF???? No wonder Lindsey and I were having a difference of opinion on what accessories to wear with it. I thought it was because we were both pretty sauced."

*Curtis said I was "one step above stunning" or some other BS while I was modeling the dress.

*Mark invited his friend, Meredith, whom he saw walking down the street, in. She was cool. She's a manager at Barnes & Nobel and really wanted to make sure I'd recycle her cup.

*All the Lesbians worked on hooking Curtis and I up.

*Jenni Rea had NO clue who CCB was. It's like she didn't even listen to any of my stories for almost 6 months.

*Carrie Beth made me kiss her on the lips and I almost cried. Nothing against her, just can't get myself to kiss a girl. Lord knows my life would be easier if I was The Gay.

*Tammy & Shea thought Megan & Brooke were a couple. Priceless.

*Matt pimped out his PBR LIGHT to anyone that would try it. Who knew they made PBR Light? Classic.

*Curtis left. But then he came back. :)

All-in-all it was fantastic. I have such awesome, wonderful friends. A girl couldn't be more lucky.

Slash says "Sorry!"

Sorry you guys. I have a really good reason why it went dark, and of course... it was painfully embarrassing.

I'm in the middle of an interview. It's going well, and, though the job would be well outside my degree's purview, I was interested in working there. Shannan knew, through professional networking, the guy I was interviewing with and I knew 2 other people that worked there through my many years at The Law Firm. And then he says... "You're right. Your hair IS better than mine."

3 things happen simultaneously.

1. I turn BRIGHT EFFING RED
2. My heart drops into my large intestine
3. I nervously laugh and say "Oh, well, it's nothing personal - just a fact."

I didn't get the job.

But that's OK because.....drum roll please...... I GOT A JOB! I'm a week in and so far so good! The only thing I can report on is that the toilets flush loudly. VERY LOUDLY. Like, so loudly, it hurts my ear drums. But, I can't be too upset at it; in every stall, there is a toilet plunger. How friggin awesome is that? I work in an office where at some point in time, even with toilets powerful enough they sound like they have a jet engine in the tank, enough people thought plungers in each and every stall were necessary.

So, I'm back, ya'll. Halloween was awesome!!! Slash KILLED at all the parties I went to. I even came in second at a costume contest. I lost to Hitler in drag and I am OK with that.

OH - and... Today is my birthday! Happy birthday to me! I'm 27, which is my lucky number. This is gonna be a GREAT year.

Tampon Troubles

When I was a young lass, my mom and sister did their best to provide me guidance in the way of women, but failed on several counts. I don't hold it against them, anymore, because at the very least, it provides for some good blog fodder.

Some time during middle school, I was invited to go swimming with some girlfriends. I accepted. After I hung up the phone, I realized that I had a dilemma; I was on my period and I knew that I couldn't wear a pad to the pool. Other than knowing that pads and pools don't mix, I didn't know what to do. I had a vague idea that there was something that would solve my problem, but all my mom and sister had taught me was the way of the pad.

But I still had my dilemma, so I went rummaging through my mom's bathroom drawers. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but when I stumbled upon a tampon, I knew that this was the solution to my problem. But HOW??????

There was just the one, lone tampon. No instructions. My friend was on her way and I was panicking. Survival instincts kicked in, I tore off the paper wrapper and shoved my only solution in.

Ouch. Was it suppose to hurt? I figured the answer was "yes" so I just went with it. I was in a fair amount of pain for the entire trip to the pool, It hurt when I sat, I hurt when I stood, it hurt in a box, it hurt with a fox...errrr.... or something. About half way in, I swore off tampons for life and couldn't wait to get home and get the devil stick out of me.

When the blessed moment arrived - it wouldn't budge. I almost cried. I pulled and heaved and finally with the burning sensations of ten thousand suns, it finally plopped out and I went and gently cried and rocked myself to sleep to try to forget about the horrific pain of the day.

Fast forward to 3 years later. True to my word, I hadn't even LOOKED at another tampon, classifying all who wore them loose and flappy hussies. However, I was in the same dilemma I had been in 3 years earlier. A friend, Marie, and I were at summer camp and wanted to go "blobbing," but just like pads and pools don't mix, pads and lakes don't mix either. I share this with my friend. She hands me a box of tampons, a jar of Vaseline, the instructions and sends me to the bathroom stalls.

Not entirely convinced this is going to work, I agree to give it another shot. I find the smallest tampon in the box, lube it up with Vaseline and take a look at the instructions. Somewhere around step 3 or 4, I see where I went wrong all those years ago - I turn to Marie and ask "Oooh! You take the cardboard applicator OUT?!?!???"